


Smoldering

by Strigoi17



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Back Scratching, Blood, M/M, Spanking, Verbal Abuse, neck biting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:44:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigoi17/pseuds/Strigoi17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Komaeda’s stubborn, and Hinata’s quick to anger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoldering

You loved Komaeda. That was fact, plain and simplistic, though one you didn’t care to acknowledge often; you loved him through all of his antics, all of his quirks and all of his aggravations.

You were, however, getting sick of how stubborn he was.

When you told him to shut up, you didn’t actually want him to. You just wanted two minutes of quiet so you could figure out what the hell was going on in the movie — two minutes of finding out what you’d missed while he was palming you through your jeans and trying to get a rise out of you.

Now your two minutes had passed and you were getting annoyed. He hadn’t answered any of your questions, laughed at any of your comments, or otherwise opened his mouth at all since you’d snapped at him.

For the first five minutes you didn’t care — after fifteen, you were getting restless and guilty. You scoot closer, bringing your thigh against his as you lean your cheek on his shoulder. His chin is pale in the light from the television, his lips pressed together and colorless as you whisper to his neck. You kiss his shoulder through his shirt, rub his side as an apology. “Komaeda?”

Still, he doesn’t answer, and your temper flares in your stomach. You don’t speak, lost for words, but act impulsively all the same. Swinging your leg over his hips, you grab him around his ribs and yank him forward, chest flush against yours as you bite harshly into the soft curve of his neck.

You listen intently for the gasp against your ear, the rush of hot breath, but it doesn’t come. There’s a small grunt of surprise, deep in his throat, but it doesn’t reach you like you want it to. Heated anger kindles in your stomach.

“What?” You scoff. “Do you suddenly think you’re equal to me?”

There’s a change in his breathing; a tightening of his thigh muscles beneath your ass. He doesn’t respond, and you’re getting more and more tired of how stubborn he is. From your straddling position, you scoot back, unbutton his jeans and slip his cock out of his boxers with the metallic sound of a zipper straining open.

You let it lay out in front of him, neglecting to touch it as you run your hands up the concave of his stomach, all long fingers and broad palms. He flinches when you peel up his t-shirt and squeeze his nipples, but keeps the noises trapped in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, a soft smile ringing around his closed lips.

Both of your hands rake down his sides, leaving slopes of bright red irritation glowing on the pale white of his ribs. His eyes open up to yours, wide and nervous, but as he bites his lips he smiles.

“You little shit.” You kiss him hard, scrape your teeth against his lower lip — when he opens his mouth to your tongue, you yank away, leave him cold and tug his shirt up over his head violently. It tousles his hair and leaves him looking stunned, but still silent. His face is flushed red and surprised, maybe questioning. You kiss him again, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He gets a taste of you, just a moment to lean in, before you pull back.

Leaning away, you scoff. “Look at you, look how fucking pathetic you are. I could kill you for this, you know — you worthless piece of garbage. You’re still below me, no matter how cute you try to be.”

He doesn’t answer. You stand and slip off your tie, throw it on top of him. Your shirt follows, ringing down off of your fingers and collapsing in a puddle on his lap. The room is warm, pleasant on your sweaty skin. Raising a brow, you peek down at him and pause: his eyes are wide and his lips are parted as he pants, thin chest heaving and eyelids fluttering. There’s a red welt where you bit him before, quickly turning purple against the powder white of his shoulders, and the angry red scratches flame on his torso.

“So you can’t get off on me touching you anymore?” Your fingers tug at your waistband, running along your hips. “Are you that broken, Komaeda?”

There was a time, months ago, when you hated him talking about himself like this. It ground down on your bones like sandpaper, flipped a switch of irritation and unease in your mind — but the way his face twisted as his thoughts raced made you start to say them yourself. And now, as his eyebrows turn upward and his lips smooth, it starts a fire in your stomach you won’t let rage on the couch.

You unsnap your jeans, and the noise makes him frown. He opens his mouth more, teeters on the edge of speech, but ultimately stays quiet. Your nostrils flare and your eyebrows turn down, and as you shuck off your pants you give an order he follows immediately. “Up.”

When he stands, you grab his wrist hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t fight you as you tug him up the stairs, but he grunts when you sling him onto the bed. He’s lighter than you’d like, and as you straddle him again you make a mental note to make him a second lunch later.

You grab a handful of hair and yank his head sideways, averting his eyes from you. His cheek presses into the sheets, and his eyelids close. Below yours, his hips rock, and you rock with him; he licks his lip at the friction.

“You’ve got a big fucking ego. You want to play games? Fine. You aren’t allowed to speak at all, no matter what I do to you.”

You tug harder, exposing his neck again. Swooping down, you lick a long line of heat across his skin; as you push your stomach against his, his dick presses against your hips.

“So eager,” You laugh, nipping at his shoulder again. You bite him everywhere you can reach — on his neck and his jaw and his shoulders and his nipples, leaving tiny red wings of teeth marks. His ankles lock at the base of your back, arms reaching up around your neck as his breath quickens and he gives a quiet “Yes…”

A sharp tug to his hair, and a yelp of surrender. “Who the hell said you could touch me?”

You raise from his neck, locking your eyes. His are wide and watery, and his entire face pleads for you. “Please, Hajime.”

His voice is quiet. Begging is a good look for him.

“Who said you could speak?” Your hand darts between his legs; he gives a throaty moan, surprised and embarrassed, but you sit up, slip off of him.

“Because I sure as hell didn’t. Take off your boxers.”

He hesitates, bites his lip for just a moment — before shimmying out of the underwear.

“On your stomach,” You say, leaning back as you take off your own. “I don’t want you looking at me, you piece of shit.”

He shifts, exposing his ass to you. He peaks his hips up, tipping his bottom into the air. It’s soft to the touch, softer to the eye; you let both of your hands glide across it, down his thighs. You’re gentle now, all silken strokes and featherlight fingertips. He rocks back onto you, but works to quiet his pants. It’s easy to soak in, easy to sink your teeth into; he moans as you bite into his inner thigh, and screams as you slap his ass.

“Ha-Hajime!”

“I told you to do something.” You sit up and pull him into your lap; he turns his head to the side, immediately laying his cheek against your thigh. The look of him, open-mouthed and cloudy-eyed, makes your dick jump. “And you went against what I said. Now doesn’t that deserve punishment?”

He stays quiet, only after you want him to speak. A hard, resonating slap against his ass; almost immediately, a scarlet handprint jumps into place. It looks like blood against cream, and you stall in your speech to stare. “…Speak, Nagito.”

“Y-Yes.” His voice is like broken glass as it drips out of his mouth. He’s sweating and panting, strung tight and hard since your movie. “I deserve to be punished.”

“How many times did you make noise after I told you not to?” You rub the marks, kneading him with one hand.

“F-Four,” He again arches his back, rutting against your legs, “I think.”

“Good.” You bring your hand down again, hard. “Five, since you won’t stop squirming.”

He nods, falling limp. “Count for me.” You say, and swing down again.

His skin is supple beneath your palm; the skin rises to yours and turns bright crimson. Your hand stings. He yelps with each spank; by three he’s screaming, high-pitched and broken, and by five there’s a line of drool threatening to drip onto your leg. There’s a half-smile on his face as he gasps for breath, blinking white eyelashes up at you.

“Can…” He inhales. “Can I talk now?”

You nod, running a hand up the notches of his spine. “Go ahead.”

He arches up into your hands, shivering at the teasing touch. His entire ass is red, marked by lines of swollen fingerprints. He smiles wider, turning hopeful eyes up to yours. “Will you please fuck me? Am I — punished enough, yet?”

You take a moment to feign mental pondering, before shrugging. Your actions are nonchalant, but your dick poking into his stomach tells both of you otherwise. “Sure. Sit up.”

He does as told, scrambling upright on your lap. As he adjusts, his cock brushes against yours, and you both gasp. He’s leaned forward, both hands on your shoulders, and when he inhales you can hear it, sharp in your ear. Gripping hard at his hips, you push him back. “Up,” You say again.

When he rises, both of your hands keep him steady. He raises his left shoulder above his right, lets his head roll onto it as he coaxes himself over the sensitive head. Your hand sits perfectly in the dip of his back, guiding him lower.

The moan you give when he slips down on top of you vibrates in your chest; he throws his head back and gives a whine that you can feel; it skitters across your skin as vibrant electricity. He works himself down onto you with rolling hips and fractured whimpers, each centimeter another flame ripping its way through your chest. Your moans are deep and your hands are tight on his hips; the bones dig into your palms.

Halfway inside of him, Komaeda stops to catch his breath. His breathing is heavy and rickety, echoing in his lungs as he struggles with the combination of pain and ecstasy. With a grunt of disapproval, you yank him down as you buck up into him, burying yourself to the root.

A wave of knife-edged heat waves over you, chokes a creaking groan out of your chest. Out of instinct, your eyes close, but as you hear him give an outright scream, you force them open.

A thin stripe of tears skirts across his lashline; his mouth hangs open, drool dripping down his chin in stringy pearls as his breath stutters. He’s flushed all over, rocking back and forth as he chokes down half-breaths and moans. The shells of his shoulders are pink and his neck is flame red; his nails are sharp in your shoulders and his ass is warm around you. You reach a hand up, fisting it in his hair as your other rakes down his back and takes blood with it.

And when you thrust, you yank hard, feed on his screams as they burst into the air.

He immediately rocks down onto you, giving warbling yells each time you hit his prostate. You force your eyes open as he bobs over your dick, watching tears tumble down his cheeks and sharp shouts break him.

Leaning forward, you rest your chin against his shoulder. His chest heaves as it presses against yours and his arms link around your neck; your head clouds over and you speak impulsively.

“I want to make you go hoarse,” You say. “You won’t be able to-to walk tomorrow.”

“Please!” He whimpers.

With every jerk into him, he lets out another quick pant, yelping as you tear out of him to pound back in. Your own moans are mounting; you bite his neck to stifle them. You taste blood in your mouth, feel it drying under your fingernails. Your orgasm is mounting, thumping in your stomach, and all you can hear is the blood pumping in your ears and Komaeda screaming.

“Please — g-god — Please, I’m so close, faster —”

His voice is muted, trapped deep in his throat, but you can hear him fine. You drill into him, hips stuttering as both of you squirm and writhe and grunt. You grip at his hips, his back, his hair; anything to keep him grounded to you. Your movements aren’t frantic, even as you both squirm, expecting your climaxes — your sex is burning, a kindled flame smoldering through the darkness.

His pants dissolve, and when he reaches his orgasm he’s actually breathless, until he swings down onto you hard. All of his breath comes back and he’s screaming, bellowing obscenities in your ear as you thrust into him slowly, milking him for every sound he has.

The sound half makes you go deaf and half shoves you toward your own climax. Liquid fire pumps through your veins and you’re biting his shoulder again; a different spot but just as much blood. He moans as you jerk up into him; he’s sensitive, and you’re devouring both his shoulder and his ass.

The aftercare is nice, quiet. He hisses as he steps into the shower, the scratches on his back stinging under the water. Your bathroom is dim, lit only by the vanity lights; the shadows cast in your shower make you sleepy. You’re gentle as you wash the blood from his back and neck; it makes the water murky brown and your stomach hurt. You kiss every hickey, every bite mark and every gash from your fingernails. You ask him if it was good, and he replies,

“Yes. Of course, Hajime, I loved it. I love you.”

“I love you too.”


End file.
